Candace Robb - A Trust Betrayed

Margaret could see Andrew truly believed he had done wrong, though in the eyes of the Kirk she was not so certain. “Did many die?”

He shook his head. “At least I do not have that on my conscience. It is the dishonor I cannot bear. I did not know how unbearable it would be to me until it was done.”

He was quiet again. His eyes closed, he seemed to be praying. Margaret wanted to comfort him. It was difficult to keep her silence.

“You asked about that night at the abbey,” he said at last. “When Harry and Davy died. I will tell you. Only today I learned of the last link. I believe it was Harcar who betrayed them to the sheriff. On Jack’s information.”

Dear God, another who accused Jack. “Do you know that?”

“I know that Abbot Adam paid Harcar for something recently. And there is talk of Jack and Harcar drinking together.”

Margaret bowed her head. Although she had never met the men, she still found it hard to think of Jack being responsible for Harry’s and Davy’s deaths.

“The abbot told the brethren of Holyrood to expect several Dominicans in the evening, and to allow them entrance. What he did not tell them was that some of the supposed Dominicans purposed to create chaos and draw the brethren away from their fellows, who would come in after them to steal the documents that had been collected in the abbot’s chambers for the couriers. Harry and Davy were caught before the others arrived.”

“How did the intruders know where the documents resided?”

“I do not know how it was planned.”

“Were the men murdered in the abbey?”

“No. The soldiers dragged them away to execute them.”

“This happened the night before you returned from St. Andrews?”

“Yes. I believe they thought I had gone to St. Andrews for the last documents, that someone would be traveling south with the archives soon.”

“Were you still gathering documents?”

“No. The abbot sent me to St. Andrews to complain to Bishop Wishart and James the Steward, who were meeting there, about my rough treatment by King Edward. I was to say I had been forced to accompany the soldiers in gathering the documents, that I had helped them because I was weak and feared for my life, which was of course true.” Andrew pressed a hand to his forehead. “I was to beg forgiveness.”

“But you had done what your abbot wanted. Why did he seek then to humiliate you?”

“He saw my misery and thought to use it, that I would be quite convincing and would gain their confidence and, perhaps, access to the talks from which he was excluded.”

“What happened?”

“I went to St. Andrews, was told that the bishop and the Steward were unable to see me. I stayed for a few days, but my reputation had preceded me and I was shunned by all, to them I was a traitor. And then I understood the other piece of my abbot’s plan-he sought in this way to show me that I could never go back, I could never desert his cause, for no one would believe me. So I went to Elcho and confessed to our mother, the blessed Christiana, one who could not deny me an audience.” All Andrew’s bitterness went into the word “blessed.”

He had always believed in Christiana. Obviously that had changed. “Why did you confess to Mother?”

“I wanted absolution.”

“Did she absolve you?”

“No one can, Maggie.”

Neither of them moved for a long while. A church bell tolled, but Andrew noticed it only as it ceased. What it had signaled he did not know, did not care. But it woke him from his breathless wait for Margaret’s response. It was as if he had expected that she would shrive him when his mother could not. Ye’t more so than after his meeting with Christiana, he felt lighter of heart, having confessed all to his sister.

Needing activity, he eased off the bed and crossed to the window. Behind him, in the shelter of the curtained bed, Margaret began to sob. She had been right. He did not comfort her, he burdened her. She had received yet another sorrow to add to her burden.

“I should leave you now,” he said. “You have what you wished, all that I know.”

He heard her rise and approach him.

“What is happening here?” she cried. “Has God forsaken us?”

As Andrew turned, Margaret put her arms round his chest and hugged him hard. His throat tightened.

“He has spared Roger, Maggie. Is that not cause to rejoice?”

“This is not a time of rejoicing.”

He kissed the top of her head, held her.

She quieted. Took a few shuddering breaths. Leaned back to look up at him. “I understand now why you did not wish to tell me.” Though her voice was hoarse from her outburst, she spoke with a calm that heartened him.

There was a knock. “Father Andrew!” It was Matthew’s voice.

Andrew opened the door, finding his servant anxiously pacing. “You should not have left the abbey.”

“Abbot Adam is aware you are out with the abbey and he is not pleased. There will be a reckoning, he says. Soon you will be missed at vespers.” Matthew’s voice trembled with the enormity.

“Peace, Matthew, you say I have already been missed. Vespers will not matter. I shall come soon, and I thank you for your message. But it would go better for you if you return at once.”

Matthew shook his head.

“Go now, lad. I command you.”

“My fate is yours, Father Andrew.”

“It is a foolish loyalty.”

Margaret had joined Andrew at the door. “I should think you would thank him, not rebuff him.”

Matthew made a good effort to smile, though it turned out almost unpleasant.

“If Matthew returns in your company, Andrew,” Margaret added, “it will be clear who detained him and that he did not add loitering or another adventure atop his time away from the abbey.”

Andrew began to argue, but stopped, not trusting his judgment at the moment, still wondering whether he should have burdened her with his story. “I will not be long now, Matthew.”

“Go down to the tavern,” Margaret said to Matthew. “Tell Sim that you are thirsty. So are we.”

As the lad disappeared down the steps, Andrew realized he feared for him.

Margaret closed the door. “What did Mother see in your future?”

“That I would go through fire.”

“That you had or that you will?”

“Will.”

Margaret left the door. Hugging her arms to her, she stood with head bowed.

Andrew felt detached, as if a spectator, watching brother and sister. How quiet he must seem, standing there, awaiting his sister’s conclusion. Like a dumb ox waiting to plow. Ye’t there was nothing for him to do now but return to the abbey, learn his penance. He had given his warning to Murdoch. He had confessed to his sister.

“Mother is mad, it is no message from the Lord,” Margaret said.

Andrew watched her as she went to let Matthew in with a tray and three cups of ale.

“I will sit on the landing with mine,” the lad said, leaving them quickly.

Margaret poured the ale. Only now did Andrew notice how her hands trembled, how she bit her bottom lip as if trying to contain some overwhelming emotion.

She handed him a cup. “Did you hear what I said?”

“I ken you think Mother’s visions madness, but I believed her, Maggie. Her vision saddened her.”

“I cried when you told me what you have suffered. A sad, frightening vision is Mother’s way of weeping.”

“No. It is more than that, Maggie.”

“Is it because she predicted fire that you return to the abbey? Leave it.”

“I took vows, Maggie.”

She walked back and forth. “You know too much. You are a threat to the abbot.”

“It is my place. Just as you will return to Roger, though he has deceived you and abandoned you.”